


lay your dreams in a flower bed (let that sunshine in your hair)

by castelia



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Minor Alice | Tilly/Robin | Margot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:56:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28943319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castelia/pseuds/castelia
Summary: “I want to be pretty,” Alice says impatiently.He grins. “You’re already the most beautiful in all the realms.”“Papa,” Alice sighs.He gives in, he always does, and starts braiding her hair.[Or: Killian learns to braid hair when his own is long, and uses the skill later on both Milah and Alice.]
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones & Liam Jones, Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Milah, Wishverse Captain Hook | Detective Rogers & Alice Jones | Tilly, Wishverse Captain Hook | Detective Rogers & Wishverse Ariel
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	lay your dreams in a flower bed (let that sunshine in your hair)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lillpon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lillpon/gifts).



> Inspired by this tumblr post: https://lillpon.tumblr.com/post/167217265034/psssssst-i-bet-wish-hook-knows-how-to-braid-hair
> 
> Not completely accurate to everything in it but still based on the concept.
> 
> I hope you like it!

  
A burning need for freedom fulfilled, Killian and Liam enter the Royal Navy.

A second chance. One Killian never thought he’d get granted, all those nights lying awake in a ship where its crew thought of him as property, all those times the burning need to escape was substituted with the burning of alcohol traveling down his throat. No more. He is going to clean up his act and do it well, be worthy of this second chance.

Rags are replaced with uniforms. Backtalking to superiors that usually led to a beating is replaced with respecting authority. Not caring is replaced with rigidly and strictly following the rules.

And his hair, well, it’s a style popular with his fellow military men, to let it grow long. Thus his hair is replaced, too, longer locks usually kept in place by a simple ribbon.

Usually.

It starts when he’s bored during Latin and Greek lessons, he already knows it by now. His hair is down. Inattentive, he divides a tuft of hair into three and interweaves them. Of course, he quickly loosens it before he gets caught and angers the professor, but this is far from the last time this particular brand of easing boredom is indulged.

He doesn’t really pay this hobby of exploring different techniques any mind. Not until he’s forced to adress it, one day when he’s doing it while reading a book and he hears laughter. Very _familiar_ laughter.

“Brother, what are you doing?”

“Reading,” he says dryly even though heat rises to his cheeks, knowing perfectly well that’s not what Liam meant.

“Letting your hair grow long was one thing—” Liam starts.

“It is highly fashionable amongst my peers,” he defends, prickly.

“—but braided hair is something only typically found in a woman, you are aware of that, aren’t you?”

“I was _bored_ ,” he says. His cheeks are still warm, to his mortification. “It’s not like I’m parading it around permanently for anyone to see, besides, you don’t see me making fun of your curly hair.”

He frowns at his own hair being called into question. “Curly hair is quite common for men.”

“Aye, so is being a twat.”

Liam laughs. “Alright, I suppose you have a point there.” His eyes twinkle. “Little sister.”

Killian throws the book he was reading at Liam’s head, who dodges easily.

“You throw like a girl, too,” is his final comment, filled with mirth, before he makes a tactical retreat.

* * *

He cuts off most of the length of his hair after he turns pirate, because Liam will never tease him for it anymore and it _aches_.

He builds a reputation, and no one need know that the fearsome pirate captain finds braiding hair to be relaxing.

No one, until he meets Milah.

The look in her eyes is one Killian knows well, a desire to be free.

After she runs away with him, they don’t immediately begin a relationship. She’s shy at first, finding her place amongst the crew, but once she decides to show all of herself, _oh_. She’s fiercesome, a true pirate if he ever met one, and she wins over his crew more with every defiant breath she takes. When she and Killian do pursue a relationship, it’s merely physical at first, but they had a connection that first day they met, and it’s only natural that connection grows the more time they spent together.

One night, they lie in bed together, both still awake. His head rests on her chest, her hair is spread out. He finds himself idly playing with it, absentmindedly braiding it.

“Where did you learn how to do that?” Milah asks softly. The creaking of the masts and the slap of waves echo around them, muffled though they are in the captain’s quarters.

It is then that he realizes what he’s doing, what he hasn’t done in so long. He swallows down the melancholy and manages a single chuckle.

“Believe it or not, I used to have quite the lengthy hair as well, and I braided it.”

Milah gasps theatrically. “ _My_ pirate captain? Scourge of the seas, damned by all the royals? I won’t listen to this slander.”

He laughs, throaty and genuine. One of the things he loves about her is that he doesn’t need to put on a persona or any bravado for her. Being who he is is enough for her. 

“I might have dabbled a bit in different styles, as an experimenting teenager.”

Milah sits up abrubtly, forcing him to as well considering his position. When he lifts an eyebrow, she says, like its should be obvious, “You can’t just tell me that and then _not_ show me. Go on.”

He makes an elaborate gesture of concurrence. “As the lady commands.”

They’re simple braids at first, tentative as he gets reacquainted with the old movements. She smiles, bright and effervescent. It is impossible not to fall in love with that smile. In an attempt to coax it out once more, he makes more complex braids, her hair his canvas.

When he finishes, she is smiling more brightly than he’s ever seen her, making him feel warm inside. “Killian, this is incredible.” Her awe is almost palpable. But then, the smile morphs into a smirk. His mischievous pirate queen. “I can’t wait to tell the crew just who did this when they ask.”

“They’ll never look at me the same,” he sighs dramatically.

“Oh yes, the sheer horror of anyone knowing Killian Jones is an artist when it comes to hair,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Coming from an actual artist, that is a compliment of the highest order.”

The smile returns, before she captures his lips with a kiss.

Happiness. Contentment. That is what the warm feeling inside him is, the one he has been trying to put a name to, he realizes.

He is happy and content with his life in a way he never was before.

* * *

And thought he never would be again.

Centuries spent focused avenging Milah’s life, focused on that one moment where the crocodile crushed her heart. Words, repeating in a cruel loop in his head. _Even demons can be killed. Get your affairs in order. Good luck living long enough. I love you._

If Captain Jones was cruel, he pales in comparison to the ruthlessness of Captain Hook. The sound of a hook crushing through flesh is one he becomes well acquainted with. He doesn’t need any frivolous pastime such as braiding to relax, he doesn’t need to relax at all. All he needs is for that terrible sound to be applied to the crocodile in a way that will permanently kill the demon he really is.

It feels like a cruel joke of fate for that man, cruel and ruthless and thirsty for revenge, to be the only hope of an infant that deserves so, so much better.

Better than her mother, who would imprison her own daughter in a tower for her own gain, yes. But better than her father as well. But if he won’t look after this child, who will? The baby is all alone in a tower she can’t leave, with a mother who abandoned her and a father…

A father who gives up his ship and his revenge, because when he agonized over the decision, when he thought about his sweet mother who tried to stay as long as she could and the father who abandoned him, the choice wasn’t a choice at all.

Alice grows up in the tower.

He searches for ways to get her out, to break her mother’s spell, all while raising his daughter to the best of his ability.

Alice reminds him of his mother, her namesake, almost her spitting image in a way that makes his heart pang, but in a good way. She reminds him of Liam and Milah both, with the way she is trapped in a life she never asked for.

It’s a bad day today, in which Alice is all too aware of the fact that her home is also a prison. He tries to help her, to cheer her up, but nothing works. The day passes quietly, him trying to be as accomodating to her sorrow as he can, as much as it breaks his own heart.

“What kind of story do you want?” he asks when it’s bedtime.

He had predicted it, but still feels inexplicably despondent when she replies, “I don’t want a story today.” But then, she bites her lip and she asks, “Will you sing?”

“Of course,” he says, relieved. “Of course, Starfish. Your usual lullaby?”

She nods before patting the space besides her, indicating what she wants. She gets up while he lies down, before she lies back down, too, her head in the crook of his neck.

He sings, mind flashing, as it always does, to when his own mother sang this lullaby to him. Keeping her memory alive, all these centuries later, never fails to move him. Perhaps it’s the loneliness of this life getting to him, or perhaps he’s just old. 

_I dreamt it last night  
_ _That my dead love came in  
_ _So softly she moved  
_ _That her feet made no din  
_ _Then she came close beside me  
_ _And this she did say  
_ _"It will not be long love  
_ _Till our wedding day"_

The first time he sang that to his daughter, it wasn’t just welcoming new love. It was saying goodbye to his old love.

Without Milah’s death, Alice would not exist, but that is a train of thought too desolate to pursue further.

Alice’s hair, he notices suddenly, is perfect for braiding. The kind of thought that hasn’t crossed his mind in centuries. His little girl is crying, his neck wet with her tears.

Spurred by the desire to cheer her up, he says, “Starfish, might I try something I haven’t done in centuries?”

She perks up a little at that, no sadness great enough to quell her curiosity. “What is it?”

“I want to braid your hair. I don’t know if I still can…” He eyes his hook. “But I’d like to try.”

She sits up and so does he. “Okay,” she says simply.

It’s not easy, with one hand and a hook, but he manages. When he finishes, her crying has long ceased. She touches the braids with wonder. “It’s amazing, Papa. Can you teach me?”

He looks at his daughter with braided hair, and for the first time in a long time, he is reminded that she is not just his daughter. He sees the resemblance she bears to her mother. He remembers the countless braids in that accursed witch’s hair.

“Papa?” Alice asks, oblivious to his inner turmoil.

He remembers how sad she was only moments before, because of a situation her mother put her in. He can’t let that witch ruin this, too.

“Of course I’ll teach you,” he says. “You’ll be greater at braids than me in no time at all.”

Alice smiles and it feels like salvation.

* * *

It becomes a ritual not just reserved for bad days.

“I want to be pretty,” Alice says impatiently.

He grins. “You’re already the most beautiful in all the realms.”

“ _Papa_ ,” Alice sighs.

He gives in, he always does, and starts braiding her hair.

He teaches her to do it just as he promised, and she picks it up quick enough. She delights in doing the braids herself, exclaiming “Papa, look!” when she’s finished, making his heart swell with affection.

But soon enough her own blonde locks are not enough, and she wants someone else to practise on. It’s that desire that has him allowing himself to grow back some extra inches, reminiscient of a length he hasn’t sported since his Royal Navy days.

Sharp, inexperienced tugs at his hair while he reads her a story turn into skillful braids. Even though the student has become a master, she still wants him to braid her hair, continue the ritual that makes for content, soothing evenings.

Indeed, content, once again. Not completely; he still needs to find a way to free her from the tower, but he also has a responsiblity to gift this girl with as much happy moments as he possibly can.

* * *

His failure to save the lives of Liam and Milah is a speck compared to this, his inability to kill the crocodile but a particle to this current failure.

He failed his daughter.

Not for any noble reasons, no—his _pride_ is the reason his heart has been poisoned, the reason the fishhook is gone, the reason Alice is all alone in that tower.

The witch had told him he might as well go and get another drink at the tavern, and he is bloody tempted, until he catches a glimpse of his hair in his peripheral vision.

With a shaking hand, he grabs the braid Alice had made a few days ago, one he had yet to take out. He can’t bring himself to do it now.

His daughter is in solitary confinement without anyone to care for her.

He has work to do.

* * *

Years trying to find a way, slowly losing hope. Years spent at the tavern, after all, back to substituting a burning desire with the burning of alcohol down his throat.

Somewhere in between those years he meets Ariel, a mermaid with dominion over the sea. Pirates are supposed to be wary of mermaids, but fathers are supposed to put their daughters first, no matter what. They strike up a friendship.

One day, Ariel gestures to his gray hair with an old braid that has tangled up and knotted.

“I’ve never seen you without that braid,” she says, curious but casual enough that he doesn’t have to answer.

He does, anyway, soft and vanquished. “Alice made that, years ago. I taught her how.”

Ariel smiles, red hair being blown about by the wind. “Maybe one day I’ll meet her and she can braid mine, too.”

It sounds so incredible, and so out of reach. He scoffs. “I doubt that.”

She frowns. “Is there really not a way to solve this situation?”

“I’ve tried,” he laments. “I’ve searched, I’ve made deals with the bloody crocodile. There is nothing that can free her, nor me.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Ariel says, unforgiving in the face of his defeat. “And trust me, that’s not a feat easily accomplished.”

A small spark of anger relights his old, battered heart. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she says stubbornly. “Just look at your own life, started centuries ago, look at the impossiblity of Alice’s existence. And yet, she exists. And yet, there is a way. There is always a way.”

Hope, though he doesn’t want it to, trickles inside his mind. “Stop it,” he says weakly.

“No,” she says, harsh yet gentle. “You owe it to her to keep trying. I think it’s time for Captain Hook to prove that resourceful old reputation of his.”

The spark becomes an inferno.

* * *

Rogers works tirelessly to find Eloise Gardner, a constant tugging in his heart urging him that there is a lost little girl who needs him. It’s ridiculous, he is told by other officers. It’s not—he was drinking the night she disappeared and he feels responsible.

No, what’s really ridiculous is that the feeling persists even after she is found.

_She needs you_ , whispers the water when he watches it on the bench. In the back of his mind, there are sensations, almost like memories. The ocean rocking a ship like a cradle, its salt the perfect cover for any tears. It’s forbidden knowledge, impossible knowledge, and he doesn’t dwell on it. _She needs you_.

Eloise certainly doesn’t. She has escaped captivity, he helped her do it, all is well. He needs…

A tether to the world, Tilly, chess games. He sees the storage container Tilly is living is and every part of him revolts. She shouldn’t be here. Almost instinctively, he offers her a place to stay. Her hesitant grin when she agrees only cements his decision.

It’s an adjustment, having a chaotic girl such as Tilly living with him. His organisational systems and marmelade budget are certainly changing. One thing remains the same, however, and that is the fact that they play chess.

It’s strange, how that persistent tug of a lost girl needing him has ceased, but like the impossible knowledge, he can’t dwell on it.

“Ha! Checkmate, Detective,” Tilly says gleefully. They’re sitting across from each other at the dining room table, a chess board between them. “You might be losing your touch.”

Startled, his eyes snap up to meet hers. Truth is, he’d been distracted by her almost golden hair, and an inane desire to braid it, of all things. He’d been distracted by the odd pang in his heart the thought gave him, like he’d lost something and found it simultaneously.

“What? You have that look about you like there’s something else on your mind,” she says, perceptive as always.

He scratches an imaginary itch behind his ears. “It’s a bit silly,” he hedges.

“You do know who you’re talking to, right?” She lifts an eyebrow. The gesture reminds him of someone. In fact, Tilly herself reminds him of someone knows, but he can never quite put his finger on who.

“Your hair,” he makes himself say, because it’s true—certainly Tilly of all people won’t judge any absurdity. “It just looks perfect for a plait, that’s all.”

She perks up, something in her eyes he can’t identify. “You like to braid hair, Detective?”

And the thing is, he can’t remember ever braiding anyone’s hair, but still he finds himself nodding. “It’s relaxing.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so.” Tilly gestures for him to go stand behind where she’s sitting. “Obviously you need a break from me beating you. Why don’t you show me what you can do?”

So he does. The gestures are unfamiliar at first, interweaving strands into a clumsy plait, but when he stops overthinking it, the motions are almost effortless.

When he’s finished, Tilly all but runs upstairs to the bathroom mirror. He chuckles at her eagerness and moves to follow. When he finds her, he finds something he hadn’t expected: her eyes are wet with tears.

“Oh, Tilly, I’m sorry,” he says, internally beating himself up. He must have overstepped, he never should have—

“No, no, it’s lovely,” Tilly insists, her voice thick. “You’re very talented. It’s just… I can’t quite explain it, I just feel… Like I lost something. Yet, at the same time, like I found it again.” She looks apologetic. “That sounds crazy. I know. You’re probably regretting taking me in, right about now.”

He feels like the breath has been knocked out of him, because yes, that terrible wonderful feeling, he knows it well. Then the rest of her words catch up with him.

“Now that, that is crazy. Of course I’ve no regret, Tilly.” She opens her mouth, as if to protest. He keeps talking. “Besides, if you’re crazy, then I am, too, because…” He inhales. “I know that feeling. I know it well.”

Her eyes are big. She suddenly looks much younger than she is, and that, too, is frustratingly familiar. “You do?”

He nods. “Aye.”

She sniffs, and grins. "If we're drifting off the planet in the same direction, we might as well do it crazily."

It startles a smile out of him. “Aye,” he repeats. 

She looks at the mirror and visbily brightens further. “You’re even better at braiding than me. This is so elegant. Impressive, Detective.”

For some inexplicable reason, there is a lump in his throat.

Tilly looks at him when he’s silent too long.

He makes himself swallow the lump. “Thank you, Tilly.”

She grins, uncertain yet brilliant.

Rogers feels like something is missing.

* * *

A curse broken. A life saved. A life lost.

Killian will never experience the searing pain of a poisoned heart again because Rumplestiltskin gave him his heart.

Hugging Alice and rocking her after all these years of being unable to do so is elating. Even when she doesn’t quite fit the same way, being all grown up. Even when she is starting a family of her own, her own love, her own adventures. It’s alright. She can be the ocean, and he’ll be the shore. One extending far beyond the other. Shores only exist to meet the ocean, and the ocean doesn’t need—

“Papa,” Alice says. “You stopped.”

Mind pulled back to the present, he continues the movements of entwining strands of her hair. “Apologies, Starfish.”

She isn’t dropping the matter. She's too stubborn for that, just like her uncle. “Are you alright?”

“Of course.”

“I’d give you a look of disbelief but then I’d ruin all your work,” she complains. “But just picture me doing the look.”

He chuckles, able to picture it well.

“Well?” she prompts, impatient, when he still doesn’t continue.

He sighs, not wanting to keep secrets from her. “It’s just…” He struggles to put it into words. “You’re all grown up. And you’ve grown into an amazing woman, I couldn’t be more proud, but I… I missed it.”

“You’re here now,” she offers softly after a long moment of silence. He wonders what her expression is like. “We’re together again.”

“You’re getting married in just a few moments.”

“And I love Robin very much,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll just forget about you! Is that really what you’ve been worried about?”

It seems silly now. “Aye, that I have been,” he admits.

“You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid,” she teases.

He smiles, feeling lighter than he has in a while. “I can think of worse fates.” He completes her hair. “All finished.”

She immediately goes to admire it in the mirror. “It’s beautiful! I love it.”

He appraises her, the hairstyle and the white dress. “You look gorgeous, Alice.” She beams at him. “It’s almost time. Are you ready?”

“I admit, I’m a bit nervous,” she says. “But with you walking me down the aisle, nothing can go wrong.”

Unexpectedly, she pulls him into a hug. Careful not to crease anything or mess up her hair, her wraps his arms around her middle.

They stay that way for a while.

Killian imagines that Alice is smiling as he holds her.

She is.


End file.
